


Entangled

by Breath4Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Big Brother Mycroft, Dark, Embarrassed Sherlock, M/M, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft's Meddling, POV Sherlock Holmes, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Sex Toys, Sherlock has insomnia, Sherlock is a BAMF, Sherlock works for MI6, Sherlock-centric, Spy Sherlock, Suspense, Victor Trevor Being an Asshole, spy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-09-25 01:51:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9797216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: Sherlock is an agent of the British government; jet-lagged and suffering from insomnia after back to back missions. His life takes an unexpected turn when he comes home to London and becomes entangled with an ex-soldier and an extremist. Ultimately, he'll have to face the most dangerous man the world has ever known.Can he save John Watson and himself?





	1. Not the Beginning

The question will arise, eventually, whether Sherlock knew Victor Trevor.

How much can one know someone? It is difficult to say when the human mind is incapable of fully knowing even itself. 

This is what Sherlock contemplates as Victor sits draped across his lap, one arm wrapped around his shoulders and the other holding a gun with the barrel in Sherlock’s mouth.

“Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock,” Victor chirps cheerfully. “My patience won't last forever, Sherly.” Victor glances at his watch. His arm moves from around Sherlock’s shoulders to roughly grasping his chin, Sherlock’s teeth scrape against cold metal as Victor pushes the barrel of the gun a little further into his mouth, tilting it up so it rests more heavily on Sherlock’s bottom lip.

“Mmm. Better. Got to get the angle right. Wouldn't want to misfire, would we?” 

The sharp taste of metallic floods Sherlock’s mouth and he can feel the rifling of the barrel against his tongue. At that moment, absurd as it all is, he forgets about bombs and snipers and just wonders how clean that gun is. Where it had been before it came to be in his mouth. He grimaces and swallows roughly. 

“Mmm, Yes. Don't forget to swallow. Swallowing is important. And breathing.” Victor taunts in an amused tone. Sherlock feels his face heating. His hair is already sticking to his forehead, a sheen of sweat coats his body and the dirt and grime clings to his skin like a film. Victor's dirt-smudged face swims across his vision. 

“This is where it begins, Sherlock,” Victor announces. “This is the kind of moment where people give speeches. Maybe you should say something to mark the occasion.” 

Sherlock lifts his head a little and his eyes find the man slumped in the chair across from him. He is just starting to rouse, blond-brown head groggily bobbing as he tries to fight the effects of the drugs. He hasn't yet realized that he is bound to the chair... nor that he is strapped with explosives. 

“Th..nbmrp..hndg.” Sherlock mumbles around the barrel. Victor’s laugher echoes through the empty office building. 

“Posh boy, never did learn to talk with his mouth full. Relax the lips. Use the tongue.” Victor moves closer, staring intensely at Sherlock’s mouth around the barrel of the gun. After a few seconds with Sherlock making no effort to speak, Victor huffs in exasperation. “No, no, no. You're not getting the hang of this at all…” Victor’s eyes are dark and predatory as he turns and looks at the man slumped opposite Sherlock. A devious smile spreads across his lips. 

“Perhaps we should arrange some practice?” His eyes swivel back to Sherlock and they have that all too familiar terrible glint in them as Victor tilts his chin to the side. He pulls the gun out of Sherlock’s mouth a few centimeters and then pushes it back in. He repeats the action several times. A smile of wicked satisfaction curls Victor’s lips as Sherlock presses his eyes closed and tries not to think of anything. Victor’s soft voice worms its way into Sherlock’s ear “Our Johnny boy is _good._ He could teach you a thing... or _three._ ” 

The sharp burn of bile singes the back of Sherlock’s throat and he swallows down that sickness rising in his gut. He has to focus, has to think straight. Hard metallic bites against his soft flesh as he tongues the barrel of the gun to the side of his cheek. His lips are made inarticulate by the stretching of his mouth. Wild, fierce eyes meet his as he repeats himself.

“This isn't the beginning.”


	2. It Begins

**It begins in an airport, thirteen months earlier.**

Sherlock glances at his watch. He sees, but he doesn't comprehend. The numbers don't register. His eyes burn and his body feels weighed down, sinking in quicksand. The desk attendant stares back at him with a hollow smile. Blue eyes. Too much makeup. Smudged from crying. She has three cats and a mound of debt that has made her take to internet gambling. Her fingers twitch at the computer keys. Her lips are turned down at the corners. Bargain bin lipstick. Wrong shade for her skin tone. She is thinking of when her shift ends. A bottle of cheap wine or maybe vodka in her fridge. 

Sherlock shifts his eyes to the counter, then to his briefcase. He is tired of looking at her. Tired of all of humanity. He can’t even recall what airport he is in any more. Well, he can, but it hardly seems worth the energy he would expend tracking down the thought. Especially when that tells him _nothing._ Just another stop in between two points. 

The world is gray outside the big windows looking out on tarmac and the blinking planes. Dusk or dawn? There could be mountains in the distance. _No._ Relatively flat. Barren even. But that reveals nothing.

He holds onto the counter, steadying himself. A headache is corkscrewing into his temples, gathering at the base of his skull and twining around his brain. It is muted violins, scratching away; out of tune and ever increasing in speed, while the outside world grows damp and faded.

“Uh huh… it says here your flight doesn’t board for another two hours, Andrew.” The desk attendant smiles at him with false brightness, sliding the boarding pass back across the high counter to Sherlock. He picks it up and lifts an eyebrow at her. Rather presumptuous of her to call him by his first name. As if the ability to read his data from a computer screen permits her some special intimacy to speak to him with such familiarity. 

Not that that is _his name._ Not that it belongs to anyone, really. Just another alias that, more than likely, will flicker out of existence as quickly as it came into being. 

For a moment, he is Andrew. Andrew Wadchick. Stuck in an airport between nowhere and nothing. Wearing an identity like an ill-fitting suit and exchanging false smiles with the woman across the counter that believes everything the little computer screen tells her. To a simple, placid mind his whole existence is spelled out in black and white. 

Nothing about Sherlock is simple. 

If he is a stream of data then, it stands to reason, it is all changeable, erasable. A slip in the ones and zeros and he might even stop existing altogether. 

Sherlock steps back and looks at the large clock above the empty terminal. He looks down at his own watch to compare. 

British Summer Time, Moscow Summer Time, Atlantic Standard Time, Arabia Standard Time, Acre Standard Time. Gain an hour. Loose a half day. It is _tomorrow_ somewhere and _yesterday_ somewhere else and this is how a life is spent. 

_One lost moment at a time._

Without anchor. Drifting from one world to another. One identity to another until it is all undefinable and meaningless. 

_He has been untethered for too long._

Sherlock touches his fingers to his temples. What day is it? That depends on where he is. It is all relative anyhow. 

When had he last ate? Slept? Again - _all relative._ By the throb in his temples and the exhaustion threading through his entire being he would estimate three or four days for both. 

Sherlock finds a seat in the corner between the window and the airline-issued wheelchairs; waiting silently, solemnly, for occupants so they may become useful again. He pulls his phone from his pocket and stares blankly at it for a moment. He goes to his secure app and opens up a message to _‘M.’_

> I am coming in. - SH

Sherlock stares at the screen, imagining the expression of the man at the receiving end of that message. The smug judgement on his face, completely unwarranted since the aristocratic bastard would never venture out into the field, save by order of the Queen herself. 

> There are things to be done.  
>  Concerns that cannot be ignored. 

Sherlock seethes as he punches in his reply with more force than necessary. 

> Not by me. Not my problem. Bring me in.- SH

Sherlock lifts his hand and watches it tremble slightly in the pale light of the phone screen. He looks up and around. There are few people in the terminal. At this gate there is only a fat businessman, legs stretched out and slumped so far down he is nearly lying back in the seat. His arms are folded tightly over this chest, resting against the swell his round belly. His eyes are closed and his eyelids flicker in REM sleep. Such vulnerability on open display amongst strangers makes Sherlock uncomfortable. 

Sherlock rarely sleeps, even when he is not on a mission, but during the mission it becomes impossible. They are always on a clock; lives hanging in the balance. There is always too much work to be done and never enough hours to do it. And there is never real safety to be had for one to spend hours vulnerable and unaware of their surroundings. 

Sherlock’s eyes fall on the bag by the businessman’s feet. He could slip anything in there and the man would not know. An unwitting mule, with ignorance his bliss, until Sherlock reclaimed the package. 

His eyes drift back up to the businessman’s face. He could also kill the man, so quickly, quietly and efficiently that no one would be the wiser. So many people passing, coming and going, a constant flow of human cattle. It would be hours - maybe even days - before anyone noticed that this fatted calf wasn’t just some stranger that is dozing between flights. 

Sherlock’s grip tightens on the phone and he feels his jaw clench. His eyes flick to the man’s hand, a thick, gold band on his left ring finger. Faint traces of colored wax on his briefcase; a blue crayon artfully scribbled by small hands. 

_Married. 5+ years. Father. He has a young boy, maybe two or three years old._

Sherlock watches the man with irritation prickling beneath his skin and something near resentment gathering in his chest. His mind slips and he is hovering around the man, impossibly small wings working against gravity and adjusting for wind currents as he considers where to prick that vulnerable skin with his heavy stinger. He blinks, and he is back inside himself. 

_Definitely four days._

After extended sleep deprivation, everything begins to lose definition, even a sense of self. Not really awake but not really asleep either; reality slides towards a flatness, a grayscale hollow facsimile of real life. Emotions become too fluid, slipping past defenses and bubbling to the surface. Thoughts that can usually be kept firmly caged, bleed over. Within this altered state of consciousness, the lines between reality and imagination blur. It is not much different than being high. Perhaps this is why Sherlock does not mind it as much as he should. 

It keeps things... _interesting._

Sherlock returns his eyes to the now dark phone screen and he uses the fingerprint sensor to open it again.

> Terminal 5. Gate 7. Thirty minutes. You owe me.

Sherlock huffs and shakes his head back and forth. Relief floods through him at the same time that his stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought of owing Mycroft anything. 

He rises and, as he walks by the businessman, he catches his shoes on the sleeping man’s feet, stumbling hard into him. He apologizes as the man blinks up at him blearily and begins to rouse. 

Sherlock waits until he is out of the seating area before he breaks into a sprint to Terminal 5.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and Kudos are so appreciated.  
> Special thanks to my beta, Sherlockssister. She is utterly wonderful!


	3. Disposable Acquaintances

When you travel everything is small. Little bottles of shampoo, tiny bars of soap, little individually-wrapped pats of butter, little containers of creamer. 

Rationed. Monoportioned. Economy sized. Disposable. 

Life reduced to an equation. Efficiently and effectively measured out to be just enough to meet the average need. 

Your expectations and desires are entirely calculable. 

This has always suited Sherlock just fine. The expectation of transience is comforting. Long-term attachments have never been his strength. Few find him tolerable in his true form and managing relationships beyond the few hours or days it takes to maintain a cover for any given mission has always been an act of futility and source of frustration. He prefers the portion-controlled intimacy of flights. Perfectly rationed, disposable acquaintances. 

For an hour or two, side by side, thousands of miles above it all, he makes small talk with a stranger about where they are coming from, where they are going to and who is waiting for them on the other end of the flight. No one is ever waiting for Sherlock. However, he often spins little tales of a life parallel to the one he can read on the person he talks to… just so they have something to chat about. 

For that transient acquaintance, it is expectations fulfilled with calculated efficiency. They generally find Sherlock likable and attentive, but not terribly memorable. Should they pass Sherlock on the street in a week's time, they will not even recognize him. He is conveniently disposable. 

Sherlock tells himself these little spur-of-the-moment vignettes are good practice for being undercover and acquiring assets on the fly, but really for him it is _vicarious normalcy._ Rationed emotional intimacy. Portion-controlled humanity. For the duration of the flight he can play a role and have a conversation with someone; no hidden expectations. 

This is how he meets Victor Trevor. A transient, portion-controlled acquaintance on a flight between two dots on a map. 

He is rude... vulgar, even... but _intriguing._  
_________________________________

Sherlock is aware of everything at once. The steady roar of the engines, the sway of the cabin, the little _‘bing’_ as the seatbelt light turns on above him. He blinks the world back into focus, only vaguely aware that he has not been fully conscious for at least the last minute. He is disturbed by this momentary lapse in alertness. 

All sensory input becomes arbitrary at your body’s discretion. Too long without sleep and, eventually, the body takes what it needs, regardless of its own best interests. The _daytime parahypnagogia_ episodes, also known as _microsleeps,_ start. 

Driving down the road or sitting in an airport surrounded by strangers, the body will simply decide to shut down your brain for seconds at a time; an abrupt power cut causing the computer to flicker or go off line. Sometimes it happens so quickly there is no conscious awareness of the outage. The brain, flawed machine that it is, is incapable of detecting its own failures. 

The truth is revealed only when you discover the missing data.

A man is sitting beside Sherlock in what had previously been a vacant seat. He is staring straight ahead and already speaking, as if they have been having a conversation for some time.

“So it’s entirely possible to make explosives exclusively out of household goods. Laughably easy, in fact. And virtually untraceable. I mean it would take a really intelligent Detective Inspector and those are certainly not in great supply.” 

Sherlock blinks at the man who continues to look straight ahead a moment before his gaze turns to Sherlock. They are deep blue eyes, lit with a spark of something wild and unsettling. His face is rugged, a traditional kind of handsome, and his hair is a blond brown. His smile is mischievous. “You agree?” It is more a statement than a question.

Sherlock glances around at the other passengers, mostly sleeping, and returns his eyes to the stranger, narrowing his gaze and dropping his voice. “That is really not the type of thing one should discuss on a plane unless one wishes to end up in handcuffs.” Sherlock hisses. 

The stranger shrugs, “Wouldn’t refuse. Buy me dinner first. My safe word is _Arete._ ” He winks at Sherlock and Sherlock blinks rapidly at him, shocked into silence. That seems rather blatantly suggestive and he is not sure how to respond.

He studies the man, trying to determine an approach, but finds him surprisingly hard to read in any depth. 

Mid-twenties to early thirties. Eclectic, best describes him. Well-traveled. He is not wearing business clothes, per sé. His shirt is untucked with a white blazer jacket of sturdy, jean-like material over it and dark, well-fitted trousers.The button down shirt features a strange, light blue and white pattern; an optical illusion. The non-descript white shapes resolve into fish as the pattern moves down the shirt and the blue shapes in between become birds as the pattern moves up the shirt. The crude shapes and simple lines make it reminiscent of an indigenous design. They are vintage clothes, maybe even thrift store finds, but fashionable on his well-built frame. His watch is authentic German. His shoes are genuine, hand-made in India. His sun glasses are from Sweden. His scarf is from an afghan market. None of it is flashy or particularly expensive when purchased in that country. They are durable, well-made and functional. The odd contrast to Sherlock’s impractical £800 suit makes Sherlock somehow feel inappropriately dressed; inadequate and slightly absurd.

The cabin shudders and Sherlock’s hands reflexively tighten on the arm rests. Outside the window the clouds are dark and angry.

“You know why the oxygen masks come down when the plane loses altitude don't you?” The man speaks rapidly but precisely, with such conviction it is captivating. He reaches forward and pulls a safety card from the back of the seat in front of him and smirks down at it. 

“To provide oxygen.” Sherlock says each word slowly, as if he might be speaking to someone with the intelligence of a child. He is favored with a look that is equally incredulous and has an edge of pity, as if Sherlock is disappointingly foolish.

“Pure oxygen makes you high,” the stranger says rapidly. “If we’re plummeting to our death they don't want a hundred panicking people. So they pump you full of the equivalent of happy gas. Suddenly everyone's docile as cattle marching to slaughter. Here. Look for yourself.” His finger jabs at the little illustration on the safety card showing a woman calmly tightening her mask. All around her the other passengers are staring straight ahead placidly, masks firmly in place. “Breathe deep, sweetheart, it's not the fall you have to worry about...” He flashes a cynical grin at Sherlock and shoves the card back in the seat.

Sherlock finds his lips curling up into a smile and considers that it is more than a bit not good to be encouraging this man's morbid musings so he blanks his face. 

The stranger is probably considered charming by most. He has an easy sort of confidence and an almost permanent smirk of amusement that would make most people feel comfortable. However, it makes Sherlock a little sick and off-kilter for reasons he can't pinpoint. Sherlock glances around the plane.

“You imagine it,” the stranger says looking past Sherlock to the window across the aisle “Every hard bank, every patch of turbulence. Maybe there will be a mid-air collision, an instrument failure or maybe a flock of birds will be sucked into the engine and it will just burst into flames. What better way to go? Free fall from 30,000 feet like a meteorite. They’d cry buckets and buckets! Pictures on the news. Candle light vigils.” Blue eyes slide to Sherlock. “What do you think they’d all be crying for, really? Why do they care so much?” The stranger lifts his eyebrows at Sherlock and Sherlock leans back in his seat feeling skewered. 

This man is disturbingly honest. People don't talk about dark, heady things like this in these micro-serving, fast-food friendships forged in the forced intimacy of flights. It takes Sherlock a moment to think of something appropriate to say in such a circumstance because, if he is honest, this is one of those things he has always had difficulty grasping.

“The potential, I suppose. What could have been?”

The man shrugs. “Could be _anything._ Could be a criminal - a mass murder. More likely than not, most of these people will be _nothing._ Boring little people going about their boring little lives. Plugging away day in and day out. Million more like them. Nothing worth crying over.” The stranger turns towards Sherlock now, leaning in closer. 

“Statistically speaking, on a long enough timeline, everyone’s chances of survival goes down to zero. People die. That’s what they do. No use feeling bad about it.” The stranger fixes Sherlock with a pointed look that twists something uncomfortably in Sherlock’s chest. He tries to read him once again. His mind is fuzzy, the world fizzling on the edges. He really needs a decent night's sleep. The stranger is fidgeting, fingers and feet tapping; not as if he is nervous, but perhaps impatient - as if he has better things to do. 

“What is that you do, -?”

“Victor. Victor Trevor.” The man offers his hand. Firm handshake. 

“Nice to meet you, Victor.” Sherlock says and Victor holds Sherlock’s stare for a moment before huffing a little laugh and looking away. He has clearly noticed that Sherlock didn’t offer his own name but he is not going to press the matter.

“What is that you do, Victor?”

“What do you want me to do?” Victor looks at him sharply with a smile quirked to one side and Sherlock is not certain if this is intended to be suggestive or not. He has never been good at picking up those signals when directed at himself. 

“I mean… for a living,” Sherlock clarifies. Victor turns his eyes away again.

“Why do you want to know? So you can say _‘oh, that’s what you do’_ like a little prick. Measure me against it? Against yourself? Think that makes you understand it all a bit better? A job is just a fucking’ job.” 

Sherlock huffs, surprised by the frankness and sharp intelligence of the other man. He had thought knowing the man's profession would give him some measure of the man. Typically, he needn't ask, as people inevitably had multiple tells. However, details about Mr. Trevor continued to be elusive. 

Victor is starting to shift forward, as if he means to leave, and Sherlock can’t let him. He doesn’t understand a thing about this man and why his presence is both comfortable and unsettling. He decides on a different tact.

“I have to admit, Victor. You are not as dull or idiotic as I am accustomed,” Sherlock says smoothly. The man’s head tilts, a strange smile on his face. Sherlock hardens his own expression and launches into his usual deductive stream, pulling apart the facts and stripping the person bare… though he hasn't much to work with this time. 

“Well-traveled, so I would say you do something for a company with a far reach. Perhaps a younger organization, a start-up, given the relaxed dress code. Though your personality suggests someone that enjoys going against the grain - rebelling against authority - so it is quite possible you intentionally flounce convention, in which case you must be possessing of a certain skill set that makes you unique and indispensable to those that would be threatened by such challenges to their power and supremacy. Your choice of clothes indicate you feel like a man out of your time, preferring hand-made, fine-quality, vintage things over newer, more trendy and age-appropriate attire. I would say you do something where you deal with people, though I imagine your intensity and dark sense of humor is off-putting to anyone that spends an extensive amount of time with you. Am I right?” Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at Victor whose grin has spread into something akin to the Cheshire cat.

“If you must know, I do life coaching,” Victor says with a smile so wide it is clearly false. He reaches under the seat in front of him and pulls out a briefcase. Sherlock’s eyes snap to Victor's face and then to his own briefcase, still stowed under his seat with a sick, rolling feeling in his stomach as if the plane made a quick drop. Victor has continued to speak. 

“...empowering others by helping them make, meet and exceed goals in both their personal and professional lives… Something the matter?” Victor is holding out a card he has pulled from his briefcase. Sherlock takes it cautiously.

“No, I was just… I noticed we have the same briefcase.”

“Hmm. Interesting coincidence,” Victor says, not looking at all interested. His eyes scan the other passengers and then flick up towards the front of the plane. 

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Sherlock states flatly. He flips Victor’s business card between his fingers and stashes it in the inside breast pocket of his suit. Something is starting to prickle in the back of his mind; a sense that something is not quite right about this whole situation. He glances around, seeking a clear reason for this agitation.

“Me neither,” says Victor with a little smile as he closes the case. “I prefer to make my own fate.” He smirks at Sherlock, then looks up towards the front of the plane. He is tracking the flight attendant as she moves back and forth between First Class and the area that holds the drinks.

“So are we done?… You done with the-” Victor does a hand motion between himself and Sherlock. He looks unimpressed. Perhaps a little bored with it, as if this happens to him every day. Sherlock narrows his eyes at the other man. 

“I was deducing you. Discerning-”

“Yeah. I got that. Drawing conclusions about me from clues you picked up about me.” Victor says over top of Sherlock. His eyes travel over Sherlock before looking away again. “Yes. Very clever,” he says with enough edge of bemusement in his voice for it to feel sarcastic or scornful to Sherlock. Like an adult patting a child on the head. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock replies tightly.

“How’s that working for you, then - being so clever?” Victor’s eyes cut sharply to Sherlock but his mouth is quirked in amusement as he leans in a little. 

“It is working... _well,_ ” Sherlock lies, thinking of all the times people have told him to ‘piss off’ when he started deducing them. “Very well, in fact.” He know his voice is cold and not at all convincing. 

“Alright then,” Victor says nonplussed, turning a full smile on him. “Then you keep it up. Keep right up - being so clever.” Victor suddenly rises to his feet, moving towards Sherlock to exit to the aisle, though he could exit to the other aisle without needing to disturb anyone. 

“Crotch or arse? Which side should I give you as I pass?” Victor asks as he moves to squeeze past Sherlock’s knees. He hesitates only a moment before his crotch slides by, uncomfortably close to Sherlock’s face. “We are defined by the choices we make,” Victor says with a soft chuckle as he walks away.

Sherlock watches as Victor moves to the front of the plane. As he passes through the food service area, Victor snatches a small bottle of liquor from the drinks the flight attendant left unattended on her cart. He sweeps aside the curtain to First Class and slides into an empty seat at the back of the section. Sherlock glimpses him leaning back and beaming up at the flight attendant just before the curtain slides closed behind him. 

Sherlock blinks, his eyes drifting up at the still lit icon of a buckled seatbelt as a heaviness settles into his chest again.


	4. Indefinite Article

_This is Mycroft's doing._  
Petty and vindictive.  
Already exacting his revenge for refusing another mission.  
Determined to make existence miserable. 

The glare Sherlock aims across the desk of the baggage claim department should make the attendant’s flesh spontaneously combust. Instead the man slides a form across to him with the dull complacency of a person who long ago gave up any pretense of empathy. 

“Happens a lot less frequently these days. But lots of things can do it. Might have been damaged or missed the plane. Last minute change in itinerary. Maybe it got pulled because of something suspicious in it.” The man shrugs as Sherlock snatches the pen and form. “Most bags are located within a day or so. It may arrive on the next flight.” 

The attendant turns away as Sherlock aggressively scratches information into the mind-numbingly tedious form. He glances over his shoulder as a single, battered cardboard box makes yet another circuit on the baggage claim belt. The area is otherwise vacant. His eyes are drawn to the window beyond that looks out on the kerb side pick up. He blinks in surprise as Victor Trevor opens the trunk of a red Lamborghini Huracan and tosses in his briefcase. Victor slams the trunk shut, slides into the driver's seat and pulls away as two men scramble after him, shouting angrily. 

Puzzled, Sherlock starts to take a step towards the scene, but the attendant’s voice makes him turn his eyes back on the sallow man with the drawn down shoulders. He is holding the phone to his ear, eyes sweeping over Sherlock with an expression hovering between embarrassment and reluctant curiosity.

“Oh… All right.... OK. Yeah, ok... I will let him know. Thanks.” The attendant hangs up and looks down a moment, hand hovering on the phone.

“Apparently… security detained it due to an unusual… um… _vibration._ ” Sherlock feels his own forehead gather with his mounting confusion. 

“Are you telling me _my_ suitcase was... _vibrating_?”

“Um… have to check those things out. Never know these days.” The attendant’s voice drifts into the background and it is drowned out, as the buzz of the machinery builds to the roar of airplane engines.

Sherlock closes his eyes and can see his suitcase on the empty tarmac, baggage handlers backing away as it vibrates, nearly skittering across the pavement. Sherlock's eyes pop open as it erupts and the scene is engulfed in a gigantic fireball. 

The attendant is still babbling like an idiot. 

“... an electric razor but…” The attendant clears his throat and steps over to the computer. “It's airline policy not to imply ownership in the event of a dildo. We use the indefinite article: _‘a’_ dildo, never _‘your’_ dildo.” Sherlock knows he is staring. His eyes feel as if they will pop out and roll away, they are strained so wide at the absurdity. His brain throbs. 

_Mycroft._  
Definitively Mycroft.  
Trying to irritate and humiliate Sherlock.  
Trying to needle him about his unwillingness to participate in intimate acts for missions. 

Mycroft is nothing if not a brutally efficient exploiter of all his resources. One cannot get as far as he has without such scrupulous calculation. It pains Mycroft to no end that he cannot exploit all of Sherlock. Early on in their arrangement to work off that debt of favors that arose from Sherlock's less than sound judgement when indulging in drugs Mycroft had attempted to send him on a mission that required seducing an ambassador. Sherlock had flatly refused and has continued to do so for any such missions. 

While Mycroft is inclined to believe that Sherlock is a prude that is alarmed by sex or a complete novice in such acts, it is simply a matter of boundaries and control. Sherlock may be obliged to use his _mind_ in service of his brother's shallow interests for a few years but he'd be damned if he would be made to perform fallatio on some fat, decrepit politician to marginally improve the government's position in some minor trade agreement. 

Mycroft could use (or misuse) his _mind_ as suited him but Sherlock still has control of his own _body_.

Sherlock glares up at the security camera in the corner, certain his dear, older brother is watching, laughing heartily over Sherlock's mortification. “Haven't you better uses for the government's resources?” Sherlock snarls in a low voice as he glares at the camera. He spreads his fingers on the form, then contracts them, crumpling the paper into a ball. He turns on his heel, coat twirling around him.

The clerk reaches for the paper on the counter and attempts to smooth it back out. “Wait, Mr… um… Wadchick. You need to complete the form to-” 

“ _Not_ my name,” Sherlock snaps in irritation, snatching the form from the confused clerk’s grasp. He crumples it again and shoves it into his coat pocket, marching towards the door.

“Your clothes and-” 

“I will buy new clothes,” Sherlock hisses through gritted teeth. As he reaches the doors he puts on his most disturbingly large, false grin. “I know exactly whose card to use,” he chirps with a curt nod to the camera, then shoves both doors open as he rocks back on his heels and then bursts through in a grand exit.


	5. The Corsair Death

Sherlock stands on the pavement and stares up at the plain, gray building on Montague Street. Home is a flat on the fifth floor. Mycroft’s arrangements; the building is a perfectly respectable, if incredibly dull, filing cabinet for well-to-do businessmen and minor politicians. 

It has, however, had its advantages. The walls, ceilings and floors of each flat are thick concrete to sate the paranoia of the self-important occupants, which has always allowed Sherlock to conduct experiments or play his violin in peace. And the flats are spacious and well appointed, flush with amenities. In fact, Sherlock's flat could have been deemed the perfect epitome of modern convenience and comfort. Quite accidentally, his residence had come to embody enviable luxury and refinement. 

It had started as an act of spite; a petulant attempt to stick a thumb in the eye of his appearance obsessed brother by using Mycroft’s pilfered credit card to buy every cliché, modern decor item the Ikea catalog could afford him. 

Eventually, like most things with Sherlock, a minor indulgence became a bit of an obsession. What initially staved off boredom between cases that NSY or Mycroft tossed his way whilst he was in London, evolved to become a study in social status symbols and an experiment in crafting identity. He spent hours pouring over the Ikea catalog and on the phone with customer service ensuring his order came in the precise color and pattern to perfectly coordinate with his existing furnishings and provide the exact subtle signals he desired. He painstakingly fine-tuned this persona by determining what lampshades and knickknacks said the most favorable things about him as a person.

He had it all.

The Landskrona armchair in bomstad dark brown and metal. Bravur wall clock in steel black on the Skogsta real wood wall shelf in shades of acacia. Even the kiln crafted, organic, eco-friendly flower vases with the imperfections in the glazing to evidence they had been hand made by the hard-working people of… _somewhere._

It was _perfect._

So, a sense of complete devastation comes over Sherlock as he now stands, mouth agape, staring up at the yawning hole with a dark gray plume of smoke billowing out, precisely where his flat used to be. All around him the street is littered with the twisted wreckage of his once spectacularly posh flat, charred or sputtering with flames. 

“My... _everything,_ ” Sherlock mutters, dazed. He stumbles towards the front door of the complex, his eyes dragging over the ruined Kivik faux leather sofa in the middle of the street, still smouldering, its stubby legs sprawled towards the sky like a helplessly tipped cow. 

The doorman is just inside the entryway; shiny, gold name tag bearing the inscription of _James_. He steps in front of Sherlock, blocking the elevator. His face is surprisingly passive for a man that has just endured an explosion in part of his workplace.

“Afraid you can’t go back up there, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock’s eyes flick quickly over James’s coat, his shoulders, his shoes, his hands, his stance. 

_Not a doorman._   
_One of Mycroft's, ex-military automatons._   
_How had Sherlock never noticed that Mycroft even replaced the doorman with someone under his employ?_

Sherlock narrows his eyes on the man before him. “Out of my way. Those are _my_ possessions.” Sherlock does a sweeping gesture of the street. “That is _my_ flat that has been ruined. It is imperative I determine the cause and the extent of the damage.” Sherlock lifts his chin and attempts to sidestep the doorman that shifts with him, blocking his path. _'James_ ’ lifts one thick, gun calloused hand to halt Sherlock. Sherlock dodges back and away from it instinctively. The doorman's eyebrows lift slightly and his gaze slips cooly over Sherlock, assessing him. Sherlock does the same, determining the sequence of movements and necessary force required to disable the brute. 

_Groin. Eyes.Throat. Knee._

They glare at each other for a moment, silently daring each other to make the first move. Then _James_ forces an ingratiating smile.

“I am afraid I must insist, Sir. Fire brigade and investigation specialists will be here momentarily. Best to let them have a go at it first, Sir.” James has clasped his hands behind his back and is ducking his head slightly but he is also leveling a weighted look at Sherlock that prickles against Sherlock's skin. With the day he has endured, it feels like the veritable salt in the wound. However, just as the fury begins to rise to fuel a proper rage, exhaustion sweeps through Sherlock; a wave depleting him completely, disrupting his systems as it ripples through him. The lobby wobbles and he rocks on his feet. 

_Aftershock._

He looks around with an unsettling sense of disorientation, then blinks the man before him back into focus. He glares at the _not-a-doorman_ a second, weighing his words carefully. 

_Mycroft_   
_This is all Mycroft's doing_

He's not sure what Mycroft is trying to accomplish with this; such a heavy handed tactic. Demolishing everything Sherlock owns is really not his brother's style; neither elegant nor clever. Mycroft has never been one to use a sledgehammer where a scalpel will do. 

However, Sherlock long ago resigned himself to not being able to follow the twisted logic and political machinations of his brother. He knows the 'minor government official’ to be one who would start a civil war seemingly for little more reason than to bring down the price of his morning cup of coffee. He would not hesitate to utterly destroy Sherlock, no doubt for reasons beyond comprehension of typical mere mortals. Regardless the reason, his brother has clearly decided to wage war and Sherlock will take it to ground.

“You can inform your employer…Southward sails the corsair Death,” Sherlock growls straightening his spine. The message will be clear to Mycroft; a rebel yell, a declaration of war against the icy cold dealer of fates. 

Sherlock turns sharply, coat whirling around him as he exits the lobby. He has to move swiftly now if he hopes to evade Mycroft's grasp.


	6. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Enter John Watson*

Sherlock's phone buzzes before he has even taken two steps away from the building. He ignores it, his long legs carrying him quickly to Russell Square where he tosses his phone into the fountain and continues through the park.

Phones ring in quick succession in shops and phone booths beside him as he walks briskly down B502 towards Russell Square Station. He avoids the long, black car that slowly rolls towards him on Herbrand Street by dashing through the hotel on the corner to the back alley. He cuts through a dress shop, then a pub that is just beginning to get busy as the early evening shadows gather. He strides down a private alley and at last darts down the stairs of the station platform. 

Sherlock shuffles with the crowd into the first train that arrives. Once inside the car, he keeps low and moves quickly through it to the opposite door. He dashes out as it slides closed and flattens himself against the wall. He keeps to the shadows and between the areas of camera coverage as he picks a lock to enter the employee access routes which he uses to slink back up to the street. Once there, he takes to the rooftops until he is certain he is not being tracked.

By the time he returns to the street level again and resumes a casual pace, night has descended on London and he is on the seedier side of the city. Adrenaline and anger receding, he is left with a body that is heavy and stumbling with weariness. Fortunately, it helps him blend in with the occupants of this street as it is assumed he is intoxicated or high. His deepest desire is to sink beneath his own weight, finding some corner and gathering his coat around himself to sleep, but he knows it's not safe. His eyes fall on a skinny, twitching and wild-eyed young man with spiky, blond hair leaning against a building outside the pool of lamplight.

“Help ya out, 'ir?” The smile is repulsive as the young man moves closer, bearing rotten teeth to Sherlock. He has clearly been living on the street for at least two years with a nasty habit of sampling the product. “Lookin' for a lil pick-me-up?” Brown eyes sweep over Sherlock, assessing, as he shifts on the balls of his feet. A sense of confidence comes over the young man's posture as he catches a familiar hint of craving in Sherlock's eyes. The dealer's hand slips into his coat pocket and Sherlock knows he is fingering a little bag of white powder that is guaranteed to erase this lethargy that he has no time nor resources to indulge presently.

Sherlock slips his hand into his own pocket and brushes fingertips over his wallet. All his cash is in foreign currency that a low-level dealer, like this young man, most certainly will scoff at. However, that powder is calling his name urgently. He is exhausted, frustrated, angry and has nothing to lose. He needs to stay ahead of his brother.

“I'm a bit light right now. Consider a barter?” Sherlock steps closer as the young man leans back a little, his eyes snapping over Sherlock cautiously. He can see Sherlock is well dressed and the dealer's expression says he knows that Sherlock should be able to afford the product. 

“What you got that I should want?” The man's shoulders have shifted forward to something colder. Clearly, there is _some_ intelligence there. Likely the young man got hooked while in uni and dropped out when the habit got him in over his head with some dealer. Sherlock has at least half a dozen contacts in his homeless network that share similar stories. Sherlock narrows his eyes, his mind sharpening now that he has a problem to set it to.

“A skill.” 

“Heard that one before,” The young man scoffs, running his eyes over Sherlock's body with a lewd smirk on his lips. A cold shudder of revulsion flows through Sherlock and he only barely shields the expression of disgust from his face. He straightens his collar, flipping it up, like a shield, around his face.

“You are a businessman, and the business you are in is knowing people. It benefits you to know a potential customer's desire; what will hook them, so to speak. I can teach you to read their lives and discern their desires, hidden in plain sight, so every person you speak to is a guaranteed sale.”

“I do fine on my own _thank-you-very-much,_ ” the young man bristles, shifting away as his eyes darken and his face pulls into a snarl.

“Clearly.” Sherlock's eyes quickly scan the street. “But do you know what to say to _that man_ to make him buy - not just tonight but for months?” The thin man shifts his gaze down the street to the man Sherlock nodded towards. He is plain looking with a nondescript brown trench coat and close cropped hair. He is shuffling, shoulders hunched, faced tucked in his coat and eyes darting over the people in the shadows.

“Y're wrong.” The dealer lifts his chin with a glint of defiance. “He ain't lookin’ for a fix - he’s lookin’ for a quick bang in one these ‘ere back alleys.” He smirks. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at him and the young man's face falls to a scowl as he briskly explains. “Look at 'im. White collar. Straight laced. Only eyein’ the flesh. Guilty as fuck. Probably married. Maybe even a litter of kids.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock nods. “Good observation.” The dealer shifts, body relaxing as his expression becomes smug. “Except it's completely wrong. You've missed everything of importance.” Sherlock relishes the shift in expression, the moment when a man's pride gets shunted aside by realization of his ignorance. 

“You’ve seen but not observed. Look closer. Obviously blue collar. Construction, I'd say. Single.”

The dealer eyes him suspiciously. Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes. “Look at his hands. Cracked. Callused. His sun tan. Weathered by years of labor in the sun. Not tanned on the forehead though - from where the hard hat blocks the sun. The calluses and his muscles have gone a bit soft, and he's a bit of extra income, so he’s a manager now. Recently promoted. The coat is a cheap imitation of name brand, rarely worn and he is clearly uncomfortable. Shirt still has wrinkles from the way it was folded to display at the store.”

“He is, in fact, single. Obvious. No ring. And the only litter he has is 2 - no 3 - cats. Small hairs in different colors where they rubbed against his leg. Dressed up. Not for work; so it's a _special occasion,_ then. He’s dressed to impress. So, _a date._ It didn't go well. Not because _she_ wasn't interested - lipstick on his cheek - traces of makeup on collar - she kissed him goodnight. Lingered. He could have gone for lips but cheek indicates she was interested - he _wasn't._ He is only looking at the males.He is, in fact, coming to the conclusion that women are _not_ his area. _Bit late in life, that.”_

“Now, look at the set of his shoulders, clench of hands. Not guilty - irritated - with himself - likely believes that he shouldn't have to pay but for the fact that he doesn't know how to pull men. Indeed, he’d much prefer _not to_ purchase sexual relief as he has a long standing crush on a younger man - likely in his building. Dyed hair and the style of cut as well as his clothes he chooses to wear are trendier - more suited for a man ten years his junior. Sees the younger man pretty regularly but hasn't got up the courage to make a move. So, what can you, as a businessman, do with this information?”

The dealer blinks at Sherlock, his face slack with astonishment. “Y’er makin’ it up.”

“Look for yourself.” Sherlock gestures at the man in irritation. “It's all there in plain sight for any idiot that cares to look. So, how are you going to use this information to make a sale?”

The dealer crosses his arms over his chest and eyes the man. “Can sell him some powdered courage.” That repulsive smile is mischievous as he looks at Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes.

“Yes, _or_ …” 

The dealer shifts again, scratching an eyebrow. “Got some x. That'll make lover boy more open to his advances.” Sherlock's upper lip curls in distaste at the thought of some young man drugged... but he can hardly argue for moral high ground as he stands there negotiating for a little cocaine.

“Share.” The dealer shoots a questioning gaze at Sherlock who rolls his eyes. “Don't be an imbecile. _The man has three cats._ Obviously the wrong approach and you'll most certainly induce a sudden fit of moral rectitude. Best suggest he offer to share it with the love interest or you risk scaring him off.” The dealer’s lips tighten and his eyes skitter about suspiciously, no doubt trying to understand the correlation between cats and morality, but Sherlock just makes a shooing motion. 

Thankfully, the younger man does not press the issue; Sherlock's reasoning is tenuous at best. If one could truly predict who’s moral code would bind them from such acts, he would spend far less time unraveling the pattern of clues in solving crimes. The inner emotional life of people is a mystery to him as he has always worked hard to be devoid of any emotional entanglements. The only certainty is that anyone is capable of _anything_ given enough desperation. 

The dealer looks at the man thoughtfully then turns his eyes back on Sherlock. “A’right. We'll see if you're full of it.” 

As the dealer struts towards the lovelorn construction worker, Sherlock hears a bang from the alley to his right and steps back to get a better view. 

A door has been thrown open at the side of the building and out of it tumbles three men grappling with a fourth. The fourth man is shoved roughly towards the wall. He stumbles and a cane slips from his hand, clacking to the pavement. 

Three of the men are obvious thugs - hired muscle for one small time criminal or another. They are a dime a dozen in this area where underground gambling rings and other illicit activities are a draw for every meathead willing to trade any moral scruples they may possess for a lucrative, if dangerous, lifestyle. Their suits range from a couple hundred pounds, on the largest man, to a cheaper knockoff on the skinny, twitchy man hanging back. 

However, the fourth man, the one pinned to the wall, is more intriguing. The pinned man is shorter in stature than the other three men, stocky and somewhat ordinary features but he has an interesting, rigid way of carrying himself. He is wearing plain, practical dark trousers and a horizontally striped jumper. He is clean cut, clear eyed and completely out of place in the gritty scene. However, the man requires three thugs to deal with him and this indicates he is much more of a threat than one might assume with a cursory glance. 

His pull is magnetic. Sherlock draws closer, intrigued by his jarring contradiction and the mystery beneath it. He begins to understand as he takes in the man's haircut, his posture and the tan lines on his neck and shirt. He is a former soldier. 

The pinned ex-soldier has a brilliant, taunting smile that does not touch his furiously blazing eyes. He is leaning forward, towards the men baring down on him. Low, bitter words are falling from his lips. 

“Bloody gannet,” he growls savagely into the other men’s face. “I have your number now, mingebag maggot. Cheat decent people then break their legs when they can't pay, but someone gets wise and outplays you-” 

He doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence as one brute slams him back and he takes a hard punch to the stomach from the second, larger man. He doubles over, crumpling to the pavement with a huff of pain. The second man grabs him by the back of his shirt, lifts him up by it and knees him in the chest. There is a grunt of pain and some coughs as the ex-soldier is released and topples from his hands and knees to sprawl on his back on the pavement. 

“Not so tough.” The first man says, sounding disappointed as he delivers a swift, vicious kick to the felled man. "Should we do him?"

“Not worth the trouble.” The largest man smooths back his hair and brushes off the lapels of his suit as the third, twitchy man leans against the wall and lights a cigarette.“Just break both hands... finish that gimp leg for him… maybe the jaw to shut him up.” He straightens his cuffs and lands a harsh kick to the ex-soldier's ribs. The man curls on his side, groaning as his hand slowly gropes along the pavement.

Sherlock drifts closer. He should walk away. This is the sort of thing that happens every night in this part of town. It is not his concern who cheated whom and what the consequences may be. Until it results in an interesting murder, anyways. However, he can see the ex-soldier has a plan and he can see it like a movie scene projected onto a screen over all the men's heads.

“Spare a loosey?” Sherlock's voice is low and slightly slurred as he saunters up to the third man. The man startles, dropping his own cigarette and his hand instinctively slips into his breast pocket for his gun as his eyes sweep over Sherlock with interest, clearly trying to discern his intent. Then he glances back at the other men who haven't noticed the intrusion yet. 

“No…” He steps forward, squaring his shoulders and clenching his fists at his side, obviously choosing to try for the intimidation without bringing his illegal firearm into it. “No one here is interested in-” he gestures vaguely at Sherlock’s mouth and crotch. He has apparently decided Sherlock is a prostitute looking for his next trick. _Idiot._ “Bugger off, slag.” 

Sherlock keeps his eyes hooded and his smile slightly suggestive as he draws closer. “Oh, come on. I'm positively _gasping.”_ He whispers the last word; desperate and breathy with lips left parted. It works. The imbicle's beady eyes adhere to Sherlock's lips and his body becomes less rigid, receptive to Sherlock as he slips forward. Sherlock places his fingertips lightly on the wrist of the man's hand. “I'd be… so… _grateful.”_ The suggestion of reciprocation is clearly there and a slimy smile pulls the corner of the man's mouth up.

“Hey! Who's it, Slim?” The bigger man in the more expensive suit has turned away from the ex-soldier towards Sherlock and his thinner cohort, _Slim._

“No one. He's-” Slim turns, grabbing Sherlock's upper arm in a show of moving him along. 

“Oh, I was just seducing him.” Sherlock steps out from behind Slim, into the view of the other three men. "Rather effectively, I might add." His eyes drop to the ex-soldier on the ground, whose fingers are curling around his cane. For a brief second their gazes meet and it's a moment suspended, distilled down to its essence. Everything and everyone outside the two of them is frozen and Sherlock has a swirling perspective on the entire scene. All the possibilities spiderweb out in shivering threads of light, tangling the two of them together in vibrant connection. It is unlike anything Sherlock has experienced before. A flash of understanding flickers there beneath the heat of fury and determination in the ex-soldier's eyes. 

Then Sherlock blinks and everything moves at hyper speed. 

Slim is protesting Sherlock’s assertion. The biggest man has crossed his arms. The other is looking on with amusement. With a flash of the ex-soldier's cane the scene changes. The cane cracks across the largest man's shins and he collapses. At the same time the ex-soldier kicks the second man in the groin. Then Sherlock loses sight of all of them as he seizes Slim and busies himself with disarming and disabling him. 

Slim is surprisingly wiley and unrelenting. It is mostly grappling though, dodging punches and throwing each other against things as they wrestle for an upper hand. A hand in Slim's breast pocket relieves him of his gun. It's tossed in the dumpster. An elbow to his face is reciprocated with a punch to Sherlock's ribs. When Sherlock at last gets him with an uppercut that drops him, it is just in time for the smaller of the two remaining thugs to blindside Sherlock with a powerful punch that rattles his brain and busts his bottom lip. 

Sherlock staggers, falling to his knees, and throws his arm up to deflect the next blow. However, the sound of metal colliding with flesh makes him look up just in time to see the second man fall and the ex-soldier standing there holding the lid of a rubbish bin. He is panting, bloody and wild eyed. It is possibly one of the most appealing sights Sherlock has ever seen. Sherlock blinks, hands dropping. 

“Oh, uh… tha-” Sherlock is unable to finish. The ex-soldier drops the rubbish bin lid and his bloody knuckled hands wrap around Sherlock's lapels. He hauls Sherlock up and slams his back against the rough wall, pressing his solid weight against Sherlock to pin him. 

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” The ex-soldier growls into Sherlock's face. This close Sherlock can see the artery in his neck pulsing and the flecks of brown in his deep blue irises haloing his adrenaline swelled pupils. He can smell the sharp metallic of his blood over the musky scent of testosterone. 

Sherlock’s own pulse is throbbing dizzingly fast and his hands are flat against the ex-soldier's abdomen, not pushing but bracing. 

“Saving the life of a wounded ex-soldier that was about to get himself shot by a low-level thug who's biggest life aspiration is policing an underground gambling ring.” The words snap out of Sherlock's mouth; harsh and cutting. The ex-soldier’s eyes widen with surprise, then narrow. 

“What?” He doesn't look confused. His eyes hold intrigue and suspicion and a myriad of other flares of emotion but nothing so dull as confusion. His grip is harsh, every muscle flexed at the ready to release savage destruction. However, he holds his body with the discipline, restraint, and battle-hardened patience of a precision weapon. His eyes are guarded but assessing. 

“Having temporarily disabled the two closest to you by means of your cane, the third man, Slim, would have pulled his gun once the scuffle started. Being new to the job and of a nervous disposition he would have shot you... well, attempted to. Statistically speaking if he did not practise regularly in a dynamic, low-light environment such as this he was likely to fail in delivering a fatal shot. However, as you are well aware, being wounded is hardly an experience worth repeating.” Sherlock tilts his head and cocks an eyebrow in challenge. He fully expects the man to punch him. That is a typical response to his unfiltered assessments. 

The ex-soldier huffs - it may be disbelief or amusement but is seems like something altogether different. His mouth is slightly curled up at the corners and his eyes are sparkling as they roam over Sherlock's face. 

“Had a gun, did he?” Sherlock rolls his eyes at the tedium of repeating the obvious and nods towards the large bin. 

“Breast pocket. Converted MAC-10. Now in that bin.” The ex-soldier gives a small nod of acknowledgement and his gaze drops to Sherlock's neck, eyes going out of focus, as he considers this new information. His grip hasn't loosened. His breathing has slowed but his eyes still hold something wild. 

“Why the fuck do you care?” He looks up at Sherlock from under his brow and his voice has dropped lower and his expression has grown darker. 

“Bored,” Sherlock tilts his chin up to appear imperious and straightens his posture as much as possible with the other man pressed so close that it splays his knees to bracket him. “I was bored.” It isn't exactly a lie. He would do anything to not succumb to the exhaustion hovering just behind this adrenaline high and the mind numbing boredom of typical existence is unbearable. But that is only peripheral to the reasons why he plunged into the fray on behalf of this intriguing man. It is so rare to find such a contradiction in human form, it would be like standing idly by whilst a great work of art got destroyed. 

The ex-soldier pauses for a moment, face stuck between two expressions. Then the war between reactions breaks and Sherlock feels the deep chuckle in his hands still pressed to the other man's abdomen before it bursts from the ex-soldier's lips, slightly high and giddy with a boyish joy that is completely unexpected. 

The ex-soldier steps back, releasing Sherlock and Sherlock’s legs unexpectedly go weak at the loss, nearly giving way beneath him. It takes a few seconds to pull himself up and drag his eyes to the ex-soldier. 

“Me too,” the ex-soldier huffs. His shoulders are shaking and his head is bowed forward with his own hand resting on his vibrating stomach. “Me too.” He shakes his head and then his eyes drag up to Sherlock with a crooked smile that speaks volumes; embarrassed recognition of how fucked up what he just confessed would sound to any sane person, surprise at Sherlock for giving it voice, intrigue over the insight Sherlock expressed and, beneath it all, a darkness that says that his true reason for ending up in that alley is not so simple as boredom. 

The ex-soldier sobers slightly as he looks down at the unconscious men. He uses his foot to turn over the man that he hit with the metal lid and he watches him breathe a moment before crouching to press two fingers to his neck. His lips move, muttering to himself and Sherlock only catches ‘Occipital... trauma…’ 

_Doctor, then?_  
_Oh._  
_Army doctor._  
_Intriguing._

After a moment, the ex-soldier steps towards the first man and picks up his cane. He looks up at Sherlock and stands with his body at an angle, as if undecided how to react to everything that has passed between them in a few short minutes. His stare is intense as his tongue swipes his bottom lip and stops to probe at a cut, tasting the blood there. A brilliant smile slowly takes over his lips and makes his eyes blaze with an inner light that defies his beaten body and the dreary world around them. Sherlock doesn't even realize he is smiling back until the ex-soldier gives him a slight nod again as if he has accomplished some significant mission. 

“See you around then.” He winks and takes off the opposite way down the alley at a good clip for all his sudden heavy reliance on that cane that he had all but forgotten during the fight. 

Sherlock finds himself a little stunned, taking twelve whole seconds to process that he probably should not stick around either. He sprints out the way he came, slowing to a less conspicuous brisk stride as he emerges on the street. 

The scrawny, twitchy dealer calls out to him as he emerges. “Oi. You were right.” Sherlock can hear him get closer as he runs to catch up. 

“Don't know how you did it, but he was bloody eager for it once he knew it'd solve his problem.” He is beside Sherlock now, struggling to keep up. Sherlock’s jaw is clenched and his mind is whirring over the incident that just happened. The city is buzzing again like electric fire has been injected into its veins. 

“Right. Tell me how you did it and there's a nicklebag in it for ya.” The dealer is not moving away and it is irritating, like a fly pestering. When Sherlock ignores the dealer and continues to stride away from him, the younger man grabs at his elbow, stopping him. “Oi. You gone deaf?” He holds up his hand in front of Sherlock so he can see the small bag of white powder in it. 

“Offer retracted.” Sherlock smacks the dealers hand away as he pulls his elbow free and starts off again, his mind focused on a new desire and a subsequent plan to quench clicking into place. “Don't need it,” he calls over his shoulder with a certain manic glee. 


End file.
